


I Know That All Beneath The Moon Decays

by gemjam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Injury, Cage Fights, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, Past Character Death, Post Hale Fire, Scars, Tattoos, The Hale Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-19 11:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: Peter has all but given up on existing outside of his niece and nephew when he meets someone who the world has hurt in such similar ways they can't help being drawn to one another.





	I Know That All Beneath The Moon Decays

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem by William Drummond of Hawthornden.
> 
> Inspired by redcrate's beautiful art -[check it out!](http://the-redcrate.tumblr.com/post/174822793847/my-art-for-the-14k-steter-reverse-bang-check-out)

After the fire, Peter follows the kids to New York because he doesn’t know what else to do. Families are supposed to stick together, right? Laura is already attending medical school out there and Derek wants to take a gap year to brood with his guitar. Peter can be a doctor anywhere.

He gets out of the hospital the day before Derek’s high school graduation. He and Laura cheer extra loud as he accepts his diploma, as though they can make up for the silence that the dead have left behind. They don’t need to pack because they have nothing now, so Derek ditches his gown and the three of them hop on a plane to New York.

They live together in a rundown apartment near the university for that first year. With the inheritance, they could afford better, but Peter wants that money saved for the kids’ futures. He guesses he’s supposed to have a future too.

Laura is the first one to move out, when she gets her first residency. Derek starts college at Fordham that fall and he and Peter rent a place in the Bronx. They get a hell of a lot more for their money up there. Everything is clean and white and they have hardwood floors and a view of the park. It’s exactly the kind of middle ground that Peter feels most comfortable in.

Peter keeps waiting for Derek to want his own space, but they stay there together for four years. When Derek gets into grad school in Brooklyn, he rents a one-bedroom apartment and, five years after the fire, Peter feels like he has to make a decision for the first time. It was easy to follow the kids, slot into their lives, live on the fringes of college campuses and take jobs wherever it was convenient. It felt like the right thing to do. They’ve outgrown him now though. He’s free to resume his life.

As he starts to look at the possibilities, he realises he has no idea how to pick up where he left off. The scars he wears aren’t only on the outside and without the distraction of being strong for someone else he finds himself faced with the fact that he’s not the same person he was five years ago.

He stands in front of the mirror, stripped down to his underwear, staring at the disfigurement over his torso. It stretches from the base of his neck on his right side, down into the waistband of his boxers on the left. It’s grotesque but he makes himself look because he never really has. He has to face up to it. He’s a monster. He can dress it up anyway he wants, can play the part of the charming playboy, but he can never have that carefree life again. He’s something else now. Something darker. A part of him is gone. His insides match his outsides and he can’t fix either of them.

For lack of anything better to do, he becomes a cliché. He buys a townhouse in the West Village and gets a stable job. He flirts and he fucks but he never lets people close, not physically or emotionally. He keeps on his shirt and he fucks them from behind and he tells himself the distance is safe, not lonely. The only people who get his affections are Laura and Derek. Whenever their schedules line up, Peter invites them for family dinner. It’s on one of these occasions that Laura drops the bombshell.

“When are we going to work together, Uncle Peter?” she asks, a note on impatience in her voice that sounds so much like Talia when Peter was being, as she put it, _tiresome._

“When you raise yourself to my standards, I suppose,” Peter replies offhandedly. “You know where I work. I can put in a good word for you if you want.”

“Hales aren’t underlings,” Laura says and she doesn’t sound anything like Talia now. She sounds like him. He’s not sure whether to be flattered or appalled. “We should start our own clinic.”

“I could design the building for you,” Derek offers.

“No thanks, art history major,” Laura says, so much derision in her voice. If anyone else dared say shit about her little brother’s tortured artist phase she would destroy them, but to her he’s fair game.

“I’m studying architecture now,” Derek points out, but the words are directed grumpily towards his food.

Laura turns back to Peter. “We should start our own clinic,” she repeats. When she sets her sights on something, she doesn’t let anything distract her.

And so they open their own clinic. They can afford it and Peter would do literally anything for these kids. Sticking together feels like the right thing to do. He figures, at some point, Derek is going to build them a house like the one they lost in Beacon Hills and the circle will be complete.

The first year is shaky while they build up a patient base but by the end of the second year they have a waiting list for appointments. Laura is confident and personable and Peter has never lost his ability to turn on the charm when he needs to. They become a success story and Peter should be proud. He is proud. But he’s not content.

Derek is the one who notices. Maybe Peter’s more honest around him, knowing it’s not Derek’s dreams he’d be insulting like it would be Laura’s, or maybe Derek just knows him better from all the years they spent living together while Derek was going to school and healing. Peter was strong during those years. Derek isn’t a broken teenager anymore though so Peter can let his guard down.

“I have a job you could do a couple of nights a week if you were interested,” Derek tells him one night. Family dinner is just the two of them this week, Laura at a concert with friends.

“I already have a job,” Peter responds.

“You’ll like this better,” Derek says. “It’s just a few hours. They’re really desperate for an extra pair of hands. Are you free tomorrow?”

Peter is intrigued to say the least and he trusts Derek’s judgement. “I guess I could clear a window in my schedule.”

The club isn’t literally underground but it looks like it from the inside. They walk down a narrow corridor, past a bouncer who gives Derek a familiar nod, the enclosed space opening up into a vast, windowless room that assaults Peter’s senses. The noise is what hits him first, cheers and jeers mixing together as they reverberate off the brick walls. It’s hot in there, the stench of sweat and blood mixing together. Peter has worked the ER after multi-car pileups on hot summer days. This smells worse.

In the centre of the room is the ring, raised up and lit by spotlights that must account for at least 50% of the heat in here. They make the fighters look like they’re in glorious technicolour while leaving murky corners at the edges of the room that Peter doesn’t want anything to do with. One of the guys is lifted, slammed into the cage, and Peter winces. He looks at Derek.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“I was working through some stuff,” Derek shrugs. “If it’s any consolation, I was usually the one doing the throwing.”

“It helps,” Peter says. He watches the men tackle each other again, vicious, like feral dogs, and turns back to Derek. “I was never officially your legal guardian, right? We never signed anything to that effect.”

Derek gives him a wry smile. “I was over eighteen the whole time,” he assures him. “You’re off the hook, Uncle Peter.”

“Good,” Peter says, turning his attention back to the action. “Fucking hell, no wonder they need a doctor.”

After the first fight, Derek shows Peter to the medic’s room. It’s as questionable as the rest of the place and Peter is glad he brought his own kit with him. He patches up and ices the first two guys, nothing more serious than grazes and bruises. He wanders back through to the main room afterwards, looking around for Derek. He’s chatting with some people he looks familiar with so Peter leaves him to it, watching the action in the ring instead. It’s brutal. There’s something about all the adrenaline and testosterone in the air that makes him feel alive though. If they’ve all got a screw loose, he probably has too.

Throughout the evening he deals with a broken nose, a twisted ankle, a dislocated finger. It’s standard stuff he could do in his sleep, but he likes the immediacy of it. He likes the rawness. And, despite the fury that still courses through his own veins, he likes being a part the healing.

The last fight of the night is between a mismatched looking pair. The first guy is stocky, carved out of pure muscle. He looks like a powerhouse. The second guy is skinny looking, his waist narrow above his shorts, a splattering of moles across his back like they’ve been exploded onto his pale skin. When he flexes though, Peter can see the definition of his muscles, the power that simmers just under the surface.

As they get into it, it’s quickly obvious that he’s fast on his feet, ducking and dancing, and he could probably tire his opponent out, but he seems to get bored. He slows, moves in closer, gets a hit to the jaw that jerks his head back. Peter swears that he smiles. He goes in again, takes a series of punches and kicks that he barely seems to defend, each one making him darkly satisfied. Then something shifts in him, like he’s fired up, and he goes in for the kill. It’s violent and instinctive, none of the calculation he showed himself capable of at the start. It’s pure aggression and Peter feels like he understands it.

The kid introduces himself as Stiles as he hops up onto Peter’s table after the fight. “You’re the new doc, right?”

“It would appear so,” Peter responds, focussed on Stiles’ cheekbone which is swollen and already turning purple. He grabs an icepack, pressing it against him. “Hold this.”

Stiles lifts his hand to take it and Peter gets a clearer look at the ink on his forearm. There’s a design of flowers running down it, delicate and feminine, quite the opposite of what he outwardly presented with his performance in the ring.

“I got them for my mom,” Stiles says, catching him looking.

“She must be so proud,” Peter says dryly.

“She’s very dead,” Stiles dismisses. “I don’t think she gives a fuck.”

Peter cringes, the familiar heaviness settling in his gut. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles shrugs. “As a general rule, I don’t give a fuck either.”

“That I can relate to,” Peter says.

Stiles smirks at him, looking amused. Peter turns to his bag, trying to distract himself, but he doesn’t really need anything else out of it. There’s no major injuries for him to fix. Stiles is going to be sore, but Peter figures he’s probably used to that.

“You got any lube in there?” Stiles asks.

Peter looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. Stiles is still wearing that smirk but his eyes are darker now.

“That’s terribly presumptuous, don’t you think?” Peter responds.

“Don’t ask, don’t get,” Stiles says.

He looks so mischievous, so sure of himself. Peter wants to slam him against the wall but he thinks he’d probably enjoy that too much. Still, it burns away inside him, his fingers twitching to touch. He felt it when Stiles was still in the ring but it’s increased tenfold when it’s offered to him on a plate.

He reaches up, taking the icepack from him and inspecting his cheek. That’s what he’s here for. He doubts the Hippocratic oath is exactly adhered to in a place like this though. He doubts anything about it is above board.

“Do I still look pretty?” Stiles asks, voice all sultry, but it sounds like even he thinks it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t buy his own bullshit. Peter kind of likes that.

“If your looks are a concern, I wouldn’t do this for too long,” Peter tells him.

“Two years and counting,” Stiles singsongs.

Peter looks at him. “You’ve been doing this for two years?”

Stiles half-nods, half-shrugs.

“Why?”

“Money,” Stiles says. “What else? You can get a decent pay out for a fight, especially if you bet on yourself.”

“They let you do that?” Peter asks incredulously.

“You can bet on yourself but not against yourself,” Stiles says. “The more you have riding on it the more you put into it. They just want a good show.”

Peter shakes his head, putting the icepack aside. “This place is a fucking nightmare.”

“But you get it,” Stiles says easily. Peter turns to face him and Stiles smiles. It looks more genuine than it did before. “You’re really hot. We should fuck.”

Peter feels his face heat. He’s used to being hit on, invites it during his nights on the town, but in this setting, it’s jarring. If they were in a club, he’d have Stiles pinned against a wall by now, or in a bathroom stall with him. That’s what he’d be doing right now if he was out in the Village, with some variation of Stiles, but it’s not what he came here for tonight. That doesn’t mean he has the self-control to turn it down.

“I don’t have lube,” he says, keeping his voice level, feeling this thing out. Stiles could still be bullshitting him, hazing the new guy, but Peter doesn’t think so. He’s practically vibrating with energy that needs an outlet. The fight riled him up. Now he needs something else.

“I don’t have patience,” Stiles responds, reaching out and grabbing hold of the front of Peter’s shirt, pulling him flush to his body.

Peter’s used to being the aggressor, but he goes with it as Stiles slams their mouths together. It’s bruisingly intense, teeth clashing before their tongues find one another. Peter can practically taste the testosterone. Peter likes needy, likes to feel wanted, likes the satisfaction of making someone unravel by fulfilling their fantasies. Stiles’ desperation is deeper rooted than that though. Peter doesn’t think he’d be a quick fix. There’s something simmering below the surface and it makes Peter grab him under his knees, yanking him to the edge of the table, their crotches pressed together. Stiles pulls back to grin at him, filthy and lopsided, but then he drags his bottom lip between his teeth and there’s so much vulnerability there. His eyes fall down and he reaches for the button on Peter’s shirt before Peter grabs his hands with a little too much urgency, pulling them away.

“No.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, considering Peter for a moment.

Peter drops his hands, taking in the hesitation. There’s a reason he does all his fucking in clubs. No one ever expects him to get naked there. It would be a reasonable assumption that hurriedly getting off in the back room of somewhere he’s supposedly employed would follow the same rules though. This doesn’t have to be weird. He reaches down, unfastening his own jeans, and the look on Stiles’ face says he’s definitely willing to go with it.

Stiles’ hand closes around him as soon as he takes his cock out, Peter grunting but otherwise holding his composure. More or less. Stiles looks hungry, biting down on his lip again, his eyes fixed on what he’s doing. Peter’s hands slide up Stiles’ thighs, over the material of his shorts, tugging at the elasticated waistband. He slides his hand inside, feeling the heat of his hard cock, slick against his palm. It makes him groan, leaning his weight against the edge of the table as he presses their foreheads together.

Stiles shifts closer, legs wrapping around Peter’s hips as he lets go of his cock to yank down his shorts. Peter runs his hands down Stiles’ back, coming to rest at the top of his ass as Stiles takes both of their cocks into his hand, squeezing them together. Peter feels a shudder go through him, dull fingernails digging into Stiles’ flesh. It feels so good, heat and tightness, filthy intimacy.

He rocks his hips into Stiles’ grip, moving against him, groaning appreciatively when Stiles adds his other hand, encompassing them completely. Their foreheads stick together with sweat, ragged breaths exchanged in the space between them, the lack of clean air making Peter go dizzy. He tilts his head, kissing Stiles, messy and uncoordinated. Stiles moans into his mouth, a high, stuttering sound that goes straight to Peter’s dick.

Stiles tightens his grip, their cocks rubbing against each other in the tight space, sliding past one another, the conflicting friction of Stiles’ palm and his dick stimulating Peter in opposite directions, building the pressure in the pit of his stomach. He drops a hand, grips hold of the table as his body tenses. He comes over Stiles’ hand and Stiles smears it back over him as he continues to move, the slickness making him fuck harder into the heat until he’s coming too, dropping his head down to rest of Peter’s shoulder as a shudder rolls through him. It’s delicious.

They stay like that for a few moments, heavy breaths loud in the silence, until Stiles unfurls himself, leaning back on sticky hands as his chest continues to heave. His eyes are unfocussed but his grin is blissed out. Peter blinks, looking away. He’s not usually in rooms that are so well lit making it easy to dodge this part. He steps back, grabbing a piece of gauze from his bag and cleaning himself up before he rights his pants. Stiles just sits there, exposed and debauched. Peter determinately doesn’t look.

“I need to get all this packed away,” he says, gesturing vaguely.

“Such professionalism,” Stiles teases.

Peter does look up at him then. Stiles looks more alert but no less content. Peter doesn’t know why that’s disconcerting to him. “I don’t usually do that with patients,” he says. “I’ve _never_ done that with a patient.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m not a patient. Don’t sweat it, doc.”

“Peter,” he corrects.

“Hmm,” Stiles considers. “Peter.” He sits forward, reaching for the used piece of gauze that Peter has discarded, using it to clean himself up. “Just for the record, I do that with anyone who says yes.” He hops down from the table. “Are you coming back again, Peter?”

Peter nods, still packing up his things. “I believe so.”

Stiles grins. “I’ll look forward to it.”

He leaves the room and Peter sags. This is no different to countless anonymous encounters he’s had since the kids were settled and he had too many long evenings to himself, but it’s already imbedded itself under his skin. It’s just the setting, he tells himself. Everything about this place sets him on edge and yet lights up something inside him.

He packs up his things with renewed focus and heads back through to the main room. Derek is still talking to his friends and Peter should probably be a grown up and respectable uncle and go and introduce himself, but instead he just slips outside, taking the packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

Peter experimented with smoking as a teen like most kids did but he never really took to it. Talia saw him one day behind the science building at school and told him it was disgusting and she was going to tell mom and dad. She never did, but the disappointed look she gave him was enough to stop his dabbling. Talia isn’t around anymore though.

He puts one between his lips and lights it, staring at the little flame as he takes a drag. Ever since the fire, he’s craved mastery of the thing that nearly destroyed him, that stripped him of everything he loved. Almost. He carried a lighter in his pocket from the day they arrived in New York. Whenever he had a flashback to being unable to get through the wall of flames, he flicked the lighter, staring at the flame, so much smaller than him, under his control. It let him breathe a little easier. He got out, even if he couldn’t save anyone else. He’s stronger than this.

After a while, it just felt natural to start carrying cigarettes as well. He wasn’t a compulsive smoker, no twenty a day habit, he just had one when he felt shaky or out of sorts, when the emptiness threatened him and he needed to remember that he was alive. He made it this far. He can make it a little bit further. He’s pretty sure it’s still the obedient flame rather than the nicotine that calms him but the two are entwined by now.

He leans against the building, sheltering in the overhang from the light drizzle. He flicks off the lighter, taking a proper drag and blowing smoke up towards the sky.

“Those things’ll kill ya.”

Peter turns his head to see Stiles coming out of the building, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He holds up the cigarette as if in toast.

“Here’s to hoping.”

“Fatalistic,” Stiles says. “I like it. What’s your damage?”

Peter rolls his eyes as he takes another drag. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles snorts a laugh, pulling his hood up over his head. For a moment he looks like an old school fighter, something graceful and filled with nostalgia, before he buries his hands in his hoodie pouch and the spell is broken. He’s just a kid. A kid Peter shouldn’t even be looking twice at. He’s not going to start pretending he has standards now though.

Stiles steps out into the rain and Peter watches him walk down the deserted street, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. Stiles can clearly handle himself in the ring, but that doesn’t guarantee anything against a mugger with a knife.

“Do you live around here?” he asks.

“No,” Stiles responds, not turning around.

Peter doesn’t know what follow up he has to that. He’s not going to offer him a ride with Derek in the car, there’s no way in hell Stiles wouldn’t be a little shit about it. Peter has long suspected that Derek and Laura know exactly what unsavoury things he gets up to when he’s out of their sight, but he’s not about to shove a cocky, violent little twink right in their faces. He scrubs a hand over his face. What the fuck is he getting himself into?

Chatter bursts out as the door opens and Peter looks across to see a group of people spilling into the street, Derek amongst them. As he says his goodbyes, Peter looks back up the street towards Stiles but he’s already gone. _Godspeed_ Peter thinks, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

“Don’t judge,” he tells Derek as he comes to stand beside him, quiet settling in the street again as his friends drive away.

Derek snorts a laugh. “Look at where I just brought you. No judgement here.”

Peter sighs. “I can’t believe this is what you were doing right under my fucking nose.”

“I didn’t do it for long,” Derek says. “I thought getting angry might help. It didn’t. Painting did. And writing shitty songs.”

“They weren’t that shitty,” Peter says. He still listens to them in his car sometimes, terrible quality recordings from their tiny apartment near NYU that first year.

“Besides,” Derek says. “You weren’t my legal guardian.”

Peter just nods. If either of the kids state something more than once, he believes them. That’s the deal. No questions asked. He’s not going to make them prove themselves.

“Maybe we don’t tell Laura though,” Derek adds.

Peter smiles. “I like my insides on the inside.” He takes a final drag of his cigarette, tossing it away and watching the little burning ember. He shakes his head. “Cage fighting. Is it even legal? This place is shady as fuck.”

“It’s MMA,” Derek says. “Mixed Martial Arts. It’s not cage fighting.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t comment. Semantics. A fancy name doesn’t make it any less brutal.

“And it’s only been legal in New York for a couple of years,” Derek admits.

“That place is more than a couple of years old,” Peter says.

Derek nods. “When the new law came in, they didn’t change anything. It’s a relic. But I like that.”

“There’s something to be said for standing still on what you believe in,” Peter says.

Derek looks at him. “You’re coming back again, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. He can already feel the place in his veins.

“Good,” Derek responds, stepping away from the wall. “They need someone for Friday.”

Peter nods his agreement, moving forward and stamping out his cigarette butt. He likes to watch things burn, feel in control of them, but he wouldn’t leave even a single ember unattended. The fire investigator said it was a faulty water heater but Peter’s not taking anything for granted. He harnesses the power of fire to soothe himself and then he destroys it. He’s the one who wins.

The next day at work feels stark and clinical. Everything is so clean, so ordered. Peter knows that’s a good thing, that’s how it’s supposed to be, but it irritates him like an itch. It’s not him. Friday night he can scratch it though. He puts on his charming persona, comfortable and well worn, but he’s still glad to strip it away in a club bathroom that evening as a man whose name he didn’t quite catch shoves his hand down Peter’s pants, grasping his cock.

Friday can’t come soon enough.

Derek accompanies him again and Peter wonders just how much time he’s been spending here over the last few years. He wonders how old he was when he fought here. He really doesn’t want to know the answer to that though because he really doesn’t need an excuse to feel like a bigger failure. He’s done right by the kids. They turned out okay. Thinking about it from any other angle makes the guilt too hard to wade through.

He doesn’t see Stiles until he gets in the ring midway through the evening. Peter tells himself he wasn’t even looking for him and then wonders why he’s still clinging onto these remnants of pride. He can already feel this place coursing through him as he stands at the edge of the room, watching Stiles’ fleet footed skill turn to impatience. Peter feels like he’s far more accomplished than what he displays, but he gets the impression that Stiles isn’t just here to win. He wants the fight. Peter can practically see him snarling. He could be great if he wasn’t so messy but the victory is only a by-product to him, and maybe something that helps pay the bills. He’s here for the outlet, the violence of sparring giving him something that nothing else can.

He takes a few hits like a champ, like it fuels him, sets something free. Then he tackles the other guy full body, smashing him back against the cage. They hit the support beam, Stiles’ head buried in the guy, wrestling for a moment before he’s shoved back. There’s blood down his face, a cut on his eyebrow, but he barely seems to notice. It drips steadily as he goes in for the guy again, attacking like his life depends on it, and Peter can appreciate that narrowed focus. The immediacy of the inescapable right in front of you, fucking or fighting or fire. It makes everything else melt away.

By the time Stiles wins the fight and makes his way back to Peter’s room, there’s blood down his torso and soaked into his shorts. Peter gives him a distasteful look, which is entirely unprofessional, but if people are going to be idiots, he’s going to look at them as such.

“Was it worth it?” he asks, cleaning up the cut.

Stiles grins at him. “You worried about me, doc?”

“Just wondering how many braincells you have left,” Peter says.

“Plenty,” Stiles says, brimming with confidence. “And yeah, it was worth it.”

“I guess that’s okay then,” Peter says, and he means it really. He doesn’t like the realities of this, but he gets it. He thinks he might do it himself if it didn’t mean putting his already fucked up body on display. He’s never inflicted that on anyone, not even Derek while they were living together. That’s between him and the mirror.

“Everybody has a price,” Stiles says.

“Everybody has a vice,” Peter counters.

Stiles watches him for a moment. “What’s yours?”

Peter meets his eyes but he finds no confrontation there. He grabs the steri-strips from his bag, focussing back on his work, because honesty is worse than being made fun of. He pulls the skin of Stiles’ cut together, using the strips to hold it in place. It’s not so deep, head wounds just bleed a lot, Peter isn’t worried about it, though it might scar. He doubts that Stiles cares.

“Shall I guess?” Stiles asks. “I think it’s risky sex,” he says, careful consideration in his voice. “Casual encounters.”

As Peter steps back, looking at his handiwork, Stiles captures his gaze and doesn’t look away.

“I’m already getting too familiar, aren’t I?”

Peter huffs out a breath, turning back to his bag. He can feel Stiles watching him.

“Anyway, did you bring the lube?”

Peter’s hand slides deeper into the bag, touching the tube buried there, the one he usually keeps in his bedside cabinet. Not that he’s ever invited anyone into that house. This is his solo stash. He should have brought some of the disposable little packets he takes out with him on a night, but for some reason he grabbed this instead. Looking at it, it feels far too intimate.

“Yes,” he admits. He lets it slip from his fingers and looks up at Stiles. “But I’ve got a few more fights to work first. If you want to use it, you can meet me back here at the end of the night.”

“Deal,” Stiles agrees, matter of fact, and Peter appreciates the fact that he’s not gloating. Peter probably would be if the situation were mirrored.

Peter steps back up to him, shining a flashlight in his eyes, making him track his finger, but there’s no signs of a concussion. He’s alert and reactive to stimuli and Peter doesn’t even think there was that much force behind the injury. It was an unlucky angle. Sometimes the tiniest degrees stand between a normal day and disaster.

“Okay,” Peter says, turning away from him. “You’re good to go.”

“Pretty much always,” Stiles agrees in a comedically suggestive tone. He hops down off the table. “I’ll see you later, doc.”

“My name is Peter,” he states firmly, not turning around.

“I’ll moan it later for you,” Stiles promises, slipping out of the door and leaving Peter half-hard. He grits his teeth, rolling his eyes practically to the back of his head. He does not have time for this.

When he sees off the last fighter of the night with a bandaged ankle, he finds Stiles sat on the floor outside the medical room. He stands, watching the other fighter hobble away. He’s cleaned up now, dressed in his regular clothes, and Peter raises an eyebrow at his sweater.

“ _Good with my hands_?” he reads.

“I mean, are you going to disagree?” Stiles asks pointedly, walking past him into the room. Peter closes the door behind them as Stiles hops up onto the table like he’s waiting for another exam. He lifts his hands, wiggling his fingers. “You seemed to like them the other night.”

Peter goes over to his bag, taking out the lube and tossing it to Stiles. “Put them to work then.”

“Oh, please,” Stiles says, grabbing Peter by the shirt and pulling him closer. “You’re going to make me do it all by myself?” He drops the lube down onto the table beside him and goes for Peter’s buttons.

“Not happening,” Peter says, pushing his hands away.

“Are you worried I’m going to crease your shirt?” Stiles asks. “You wear that thing like a hanger but you’re a little overdressed, don’t you think?”

“Take it or leave it,” Peter says gruffly, a second away from just walking out the door. This kid just fucking pushes. Peter would probably admire that trait if it wasn’t currently aimed at his biggest weakness.

“Okay,” Stiles says carefully, like he’s working something out. “Shirts on.”

“Just turn around,” Peter says impatiently. He doesn’t want the kid looking at him any longer. He’s crass and impulsive but Peter gets the impression that he’s perceptive too. The last thing Peter wants is to be seen.

Stiles shrugs, sliding down from the table and turning as he unfastens his jeans. He pushes them down along with his underwear and then braces himself shamelessly against the table. Peter just stares at him for a moment. He’s used to submission, less experienced guys doing whatever he says, but Stiles isn’t overcome, he’s not shaking with anticipation and unable to help himself. If anything, he seems bored, like this is a routine that he’d break out of if he knew how. It hits a little too close to home so Peter grabs the lube, slicking up his fingers.

He presses one into Stiles’ body, slow and steady, but he doesn’t meet with much resistance. Stiles sighs, leaning forward onto his forearms, giving it up already. It’s a soft sound, contentment rather than want, but as Peter slowly fucks him with his finger, Stiles pushes back against him, clearly getting restless. Peter adds another and Stiles nods his head, bowing it down between his shoulders. He’s so open, so ready, but Peter tries him with three first, pushing the lube deep, and Stiles makes a little whine in his throat, gripping the table in front of him.

“Peter,” he says, not a moan but a plea. It sounds so organic, so honest, and Peter can’t help but comply.

He pulls his fingers out, unfastening his pants and shoving them down just far enough to get his cock out. He retrieves the condom from his pocket, ripping it open and rolling it on, his hands sure and practiced. It makes him a little bit ashamed. He wants to be present in the moment, wants to be affected by it. The thought gives him pause. That’s everything he’s been fighting against for seven years.

He slides his hand to Stiles’ hip, takes hold of his own cock in his other hand, lining himself up. Stiles shifts against him, pushing back before he’s even started to push forward. Peter grips his hip, pressing inside him, taken over by that familiar, all-encompassing sensation. There’s a reason he chases this like a drug, the way his body feels when there’s someone beneath him like this. Stiles is so hot, so tight, squeezing his consciousness down to a single, wonderful feeling, and Peter goes with it, rocking his hips, letting it consume him.

Stiles moves with him, an active participant, and Peter always likes the ones who are into it as much as he is. They fall into a rhythm, a give and take, and Peter wants to close his eyes against the brightness of the room, so unused to it, but instead he watches. He looks down at where their bodies are joined and then he slides his hands up, exploring Stiles’ flesh, pushing his sweater up out of the way. His body is so trim and toned, defined muscles so unassuming on his skinny frame, but Peter can feel every one of them under his fingertips.

He moans, leaning forward, kissing the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles moans with him, tipping back his head. Peter kisses along his jaw before his mouth is captured, Stiles sliding his tongue wetly into his mouth. His arms wrap around Stiles, hips jerking, and Stiles nods, pulling messily away.

“Harder,” he breathes. “You can go so much harder.”

Right. Peter’s seen him in the ring. He should have guessed he’d want a little pain with his pleasure.

He obeys, slamming his hips forward, and Stiles eyes roll back but he lifts a hand, grabbing Peter behind the neck and dragging him in for another kiss. This is what Peter was trying to avoid by having Stiles turn around, this kind of intimacy, but he feels like they’re closer than ever now, bodies pressed hotly together, contorted so they can kiss sloppy and deep while Peter drives into him. Stiles stands up on his tiptoes, the muscles in his arm strained as he fucks back against him, always wanting more, his body used to reaching its limits.

Peter adjusts his hold on Stiles, one hand gripping his shoulder and bracing his chest to gain more leverage, the other sliding down to wrap around his dick. It’s leaking, Peter’s fingers moving slickly over the heated flesh, and Stiles moans, his cock jumping in Peter’s grip. He pulls out of the kiss, biting down on his own lip as he braces himself on the table again with both arms, putting everything he has into thrusting back onto Peter’s cock.

He comes over Peter’s fingers with a groan, his whole body tightening, and Peter only lasts a couple more thrusts in that tight heat with Stiles unravelling so prettily beneath him, shaking ever so slightly as Peter fills the condom, eyes closing as he surrenders to it, the dark narrowing his focus down to the only thing that seems to matter.

He pulls out carefully, disposing of the condom in the wastebasket and covering it up with the wrapper from a bandage he used earlier. Hopefully no one will notice, but if they do, fuck it. He doubts their employment standards are very high.

Stiles turns around with a satisfied little noise, looking down at himself. Peter doesn’t envy him having to go home freshly fucked. He takes pity and passes him a piece of gauze, looking away as he starts to tidy up his things. Stiles rights his clothing, tossing the gauze away, but then he hops back up onto the table and Peter wonders why he’s not leaving.

“I didn’t know you were Derek’s uncle,” Stiles states.

Peter looks up at him. “You know Derek?”

Stiles shrugs. “Kind of. He’s a sweet guy. Hot as fucking sin.”

“You’re not his type,” Peter says, telling himself it’s not jealousy that’s creeping up the back of his throat. He has nothing invested in Stiles’ undivided attention.

“Yeah, I know, I’ve met his girlfriend,” Stiles says with an amused smirk.

“Girlfriend?” Peter asks, feeling the bottom fall out of his world.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says, but he still looks darkly amused. “I guess he didn’t tell you about her.”

Peter grits his teeth, turning back to his bag. Maybe he isn’t doing as great a job of being involved in the kids’ lives as he thought.

“I don’t know why he’d hide her,” Stiles says. “She’s gorgeous and a total badass. I would not like to face her in the ring.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, zipping up his bag and making sure his has everything. He pulls on his jacket and puts his hands in his pockets, the solid little weight of the lighter calming him. He takes it out and lights it, staring into the flame and letting himself just breathe.

“I wasn’t being an asshole on purpose,” Stiles says, sounding sheepish now. “I am a lot of the time but…” He pauses with a shrug. “Not now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter says, determinately not looking away from the tiny little fire that he controls.

“You know, it helps if you get the cigarette out if you want to light it,” Stiles says.

“I don’t want to light it,” Peter says, flicking the lighter off. He glances at Stiles and then puts it back in his pocket.

Stiles hops down off the table, straightening his clothes. “Well, I guess I won’t be the worst smelling thing on the subway.”

Peter looks at him, considering if it would be the right thing to do to give him a ride. Peter has never been a gentleman though and he and Derek need to _talk._

“I’ll see you next week,” he says instead.

“I’ll be here,” Stiles agrees, moving towards the door.

Peter reaches out, grabbing him by that stupid sweatshirt and pulling him in for a kiss. He fucks up words far too often and he doesn’t want to leave this awkward. He wants to fall right back into it the next time he has Stiles in this room. He doesn’t let himself think about that, just licks his way into Stiles’ mouth as Stiles leans against him with a groan. Having a regular hook up is smart, it’s convenient. They’re on the same page.

As they pull apart, Stiles looks at him with a goofy smile that eases something deep inside Peter.

“You’re a really good kisser,” Stiles says.

“I know,” Peter responds.

“Wow,” Stiles says, stepping away. “I have terrible taste in men.”

“You really do,” Peter agrees.

Stiles shakes his head but Peter can see his grin as he walks out of the door. Peter grabs his bag and then counts to ten before following.

He’s planning on being sensitive with Derek about the whole girlfriend bombshell, but it’s a skill he never really mastered, not even when they were all so fragile from the fire. Instead, he hovers with his keys close to the ignition before turning to Derek.

“You have a girlfriend?”

Derek sags, looking younger than he is. “Which idiot told you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal my sources,” Peter responds. Derek pouts and Peter knows he’s fucking this up. “Why didn’t _you_ tell me?” he asks as gently as he can.

“It’s not a big deal,” Derek says. “I mean, it kind of is.” He fidgets in his seat, glancing at Peter. “Can you just drive? I’ll talk if you drive.”

Peter gets it. It’s easier when there’s a distraction, when they can’t look right at each other. He starts up the car, pulling out and heading to Derek’s apartment. Derek doesn’t speak for a couple of blocks.

“It’s been the three of us for a really long time,” he says. “I didn’t know how to bring someone else in.”

“You don’t have to induct her into the family,” Peter says. “You could just tell us she existed. Maybe start with a name?”

Derek smiles despite himself. “Braeden.”

“There we go,” Peter says. “The world didn’t fall apart.” He doesn’t look away from the road but he can imagine the way Derek rolls his eyes. “Does she go to your college?”

“She’s in the police academy,” Derek says. “I don’t know if she’s going to make it in law enforcement though. She doesn’t really do things by the book.”

“She sounds perfect for us,” Peter says.

“I know I should have said something,” Derek says. “It’s pretty serious. She deserved for me to say something.”

“I don’t know,” Peter says. “I think we’re all doing the best we can.” His mind goes to Stiles but he pushes the thought away. The two things aren’t comparable at all. “It’s been the three of us for a long time, Derek, but that’s not how we’re going to move forward. We need new things. We need new people. Fresh blood.” He pulls up to a stop light and turns to face Derek, giving him a meaningful look. “Don’t ever feel ashamed for moving on.”

Derek nods his head, solemn and serious. He always looks like he’s carrying so much weight on his shoulders. He’s never really let Peter share it, but maybe Braeden has a shot.

At family dinner that weekend, Derek finally brings up his girlfriend in conversation and Peter graciously pretends he didn’t get the exclusive. Laura is pushier than he was and manages to get Derek to show them a photograph. Peter is more interested in Derek’s face than the beautiful girl on his phone screen. He looks so happy. Peter had kind of forgotten what that looked like.

By the end of dinner, Laura has booked in a lunch date with Derek and Braeden for next week. Peter hopes she goes easy on her but he knows how fiercely protective she is of her little brother. Still, he can tell that Laura feels like it’s time too. The balance tipped somewhere along the way between guarding how much they had to lose and needing more than what the tiny world they’d created for themselves offered. They have to start letting other people in.

Peter goes to the club alone the following week. He doesn’t kid himself that he’s not looking for Stiles this week but he never seems to be around when he’s not in the ring. He doesn’t seem to treat this as a social event like Derek and his friends do. He’s purely here for the fight.

Peter watches him from the edge of the room, that familiar mixture of clever and volatile. If he could channel that energy into something other than beating the shit out of someone, Peter feels like he could go far in life. He’s far too temperamental though, his thought process unorganised and flighty. Victory could be so easy for him, but he takes the hard road every time because he just can’t keep his eyes on the prize, or he likes the violence of the detour a little too much.

His opponent jabs his fist forward, hitting Stiles square in the mouth so that his head jerks back. Peter winces but Stiles shakes it off, grinning through his mouthguard as blood beads up on his lip. This whole place is so unsavoury that Peter can’t help but think of all the possible infections every time someone gets an injury that breaks the skin. It’s a health and safety disaster waiting to happen and Peter probably shouldn’t let himself be anywhere near it.

Stiles wipes at his lip with the back of his hand, smearing the blood, and then he gathers all of his focus and strength, taking his opponent out just like everyone in this room knew that he could from the start. Peter wonders why he doesn’t bother.

He presses an icepack against Stiles’ lip as he sits on his table afterwards, Stiles’ eyes shining at him with amusement like he didn’t just get the shit kicked out of him. Or maybe because he did.

“Don’t talk,” Peter tells him, because he can see some idiotic remark brewing.

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes the icepack from Peter, holding it there himself. As Peter turns away, Stiles removes the icepack, looking down at where the gauze is discoloured with blood.

“Keep that on,” Peter says.

Stiles holds it back against his lip, watching Peter. His gaze is heated and far too penetrating. Peter fishes out the antiseptic ointment, placing it aside and looking at Stiles. There’s nothing he can do, they need to let the cold compress do its job and take down the swelling, but Peter finds himself restless. He doesn’t know what to do with silence around Stiles. It all feels so painfully loaded.

“How does it feel?” he asks.

Stiles eases the icepack away a little. “Am I allowed to speak now?”

“You are speaking, you cocky little shit,” Peter responds.

Stiles grins at that and then winces, frowning. “Fuck.”

“You had that coming,” Peter says, turning away to busy himself with straightening his supplies.

“It’s whatever,” Stiles shrugs, resting the icepack down in his lap. “Maybe you can kiss it better?”

Peter gives him a look. “You’re not kissing anything with that.”

Stiles runs his tongue over his top, undamaged lip, eyes falling down to Peter’s pants. “I can think of something I want to kiss.”

“You know what, there’s another fight starting in a minute so take your icepack and get out of here,” Peter says. “I’ll check it when the swelling’s gone down a bit more.”

“Wasn’t really planning on hanging around,” Stiles says, discarding the icepack onto the table beside him and sliding down onto his knees.

“Stiles,” Peter says in a warning tone, but he doesn’t push away Stiles’ hands as they open the front of his jeans, as they pull his shirt out of the way, as one slides inside his underwear. He’s already half-hard which is no excuse for just standing there while Stiles strokes him, while he looks up at him, silently asking permission. Peter needs to say no, but Stiles is so imploring, and somehow he looks like the most innocent thing in the world, down there on his knees with Peter’s cock in his hand, doe eyes and swollen lip. Peter needs to say no. Instead, he nods.

Stiles swallows him down in one smooth movement and Peter has to reach out and brace himself on the table. His other hand goes to Stiles’ hair, stroking over him, and Stiles is still looking up, those big eyes, something almost lost in them. He starts to move, that swollen lip dragging up and down Peter’s cock, his tongue just as clever as it is when he’s talking. Peter can tell this is just as routine to Stiles as those fights are, and probably just as damaging.

Stiles’ eyes fall closed with a hum, his hands gripping Peter’s hips, sliding over his flesh, and Peter flinches, certain he must be able to feel the hideous scar tissue but he doesn’t react. Peter takes his hand away from his damaged left side anyway, unsure what to do with it now that he’s awkwardly holding it in a way that seems far too sentimental. He places it on his ass, Stiles opening his eyes and raising an eyebrow at him but he squeezes Peter through the denim of his jeans and that feels good. That works.

Peter’s hand falls back down to Stiles’ head, fingers combing through his sweat damp hair as Stiles loses himself to what he’s doing. He’s fucking talented and Peter idly thinks the word _slut_ which he’s in no position to throw at anyone but himself. His standards for Stiles are higher than they are for himself though, or he wants them to be. The thoughts are pushed from his head though as Stiles keeps sucking and licking, letting Peter rock into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair. Stiles groans, taking him in deep and then swallowing around him, Peter coming down his throat before he can even think of decorum. He doubts that Stiles expects any.

Stiles pulls back, gasping for breath, as he sits on his heels, hands falling away from Peter. He flexes his lip that’s predictably beading with blood again, wincing with a disgruntled noise. Peter wants to tell him _I told you so_ but he looks too fragile and Peter is still trying to catch his breath. He shoves his cock back into his jeans but lacks the coordination to fasten them. Stiles looks up at him with those big eyes.

“Put the icepack back on,” Peter says, as though he really believes that Stiles is looking for medical advice.

Stiles holds out a hand and Peter takes it, helping him up to his feet. Stiles sways, arms going around Peter’s shoulders as he presses into him, and Peter wraps him up instinctively. Stiles presses his hips forward, hard cock rubbing against Peter’s thigh.

“Help me out?” he asks, voice breathy and delicious.

Peter nods, pushing his hand into Stiles’ shorts, grasping his leaking cock. Stiles jerks against him, pressing his face into Peter’s neck as Peter starts to stroke him, firm pulls that make Stiles whine so beautifully. Peter could spend all night taking him apart, unravelling him, but he has a fucking job to do and someone might come looking for him soon.

Stiles presses his forehead against Peter’s neck, breathy moans falling against his flesh as Peter strokes him faster, twists his hand, uses all of his own tricks just like Stiles did on him. Stiles is already halfway gone before Peter lays a hand on him though, and Peter wonders if it’s really the pain or the pleasure that got him there. Either way, it doesn’t take long before he’s coming stickily over Peter’s fingers and the inside of his shorts, leaning his whole weight on Peter as he nuzzles against him, and Peter thinks he might just be awash with good feelings for once in his life.

Peter pulls his hand out, wiping it down on Stiles’ shorts. He’ll change them before he goes home anyway and they’re already wrecked. Stiles starts to slide his arms away from Peter’s shoulders and Peter thinks he’s going to stand up, but instead he catches Peter’s collar, pulling at it to look at where his face was pressed. Peter goes cold, his instinct to push Stiles violently away, but instead he freezes.

“Is that why you won’t take your shirt off?” Stiles asks. He sounds curious, none of the disgust or mockery that Peter expects.

“You should put the icepack back on,” Peter says, catching Stiles’ hands gently but firmly in his own as he takes a step back.

Stiles looks at him. “Do you think something like that would bother me?”

“You were only interested because you thought I was good looking,” Peter points out, letting go of him as he steps away.

“I guess,” Stiles shrugs, picking up the icepack and playing with it idly. “I don’t care about a little damage though. Trust me. I don’t give a fuck if you have scars.”

“I do,” Peter says simply. “Put the icepack on. I have to get out there. Come see me later and I’ll put some ointment on for you.”

“I have shit at home,” Stiles says, tossing the icepack aside. “I’m just going to go. I’ll take care of it.”

“Stay,” Peter says. “I’ll check it over for you. I can give you a ride home if you want. Where do you live?”

Stiles snorts a laugh. “Nowhere near you, I bet.”

“Derek lives nowhere near me,” Peter says. “I give him a ride.”

“Yeah, but that’s family,” Stiles says. “Family’s different.”

Peter’s eyes fall down to Stiles’ tattoo, the flowers. “Yeah. It is.”

“Don’t pity the orphan, please,” Stiles says, a hard edge to his voice.

Peter looks up at him. “I know a thing or two about orphans.”

Stiles looks at him suspiciously but he doesn’t ask. “I’ll see you later, doc.”

“Peter,” he corrects for the millionth time.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Maybe I’ll remember to moan it next time.”

At the end of the night, Peter looks around for Stiles but he doesn’t really expect to see him. He’s sure that he’s long gone. He makes the drive home alone, too many things in his head, scars and orphans and feelings he can’t define. He doesn’t want any part of any of it. This was supposed to be his escape.

Derek brings Braeden to family dinner later that week and she’s not in the least bit intimidated by the strange little ways they’ve settled into. It’s a good sign. Peter likes her. Derek is on edge all evening, but when Peter makes Laura help him with the dishes, they spy through the doorway and see Derek relaxing as he smiles at Braeden, looking absolutely besotted. Peter thinks that when Derek builds that house someday, it’s going to be for his new family. He can’t think of anything more fitting.

The week drags slowly, work at the clinic monotonous and uninspiring. Peter reminds himself that this is what he worked so hard for, that this is the only thing he’s ever wanted for himself, but it feels kind of empty now. The clinic is so wholesome and sometimes Peter feels like the unholiest thing there is. He couldn’t go back to the ER now though, he doesn’t think he has the stomach for that 24/7. Maybe he could work in drug rehabilitation or sexual health, somewhere with a little more excitement, a little more need, but everything becomes routine if you do it long enough. His job at the club keeps him occupied, breaks it up, gives him that danger and edge that he can’t help craving. He looks forward to it with a restless energy that makes everything else feel like filler.

He sets himself up and heads through to the main room in time for the first fight. His eyes automatically scan the people gathered before exploring every corner of the room, but Stiles isn’t there yet, or if he is, he’s hidden himself away somewhere. Peter wonders if he really knows Derek or if he just heard it third hand in the bathroom. Peter’s never seen him talk to another person there.

He concentrates on his job, deals with the first few fights. When he comes back out again, he sees Stiles gearing up. Peter feels a little thrill as he watches him tighten his gloves, adjusting his mouthguard, practically OCD in the way that he does things. He has his little rituals, Peter has noticed, right down to how much he lets himself get beat before he goes in for the kill. Peter still doesn’t get it, but maybe he does. It’s easier to get angry if you paint yourself as the underdog. It’s easier to lash out if you believe that the world deserves it. Peter has believed that since he was dragged out of a burning building, maybe before. All he’s ever wanted is for someone to pay, but there’s no one to blame, and that’s made it so much harder to find perspective in his life.

He wishes he had nothing left to lose, but the kids have always made the world hold value. He remembers what Stiles said about being an orphan. If Peter didn’t have any ties, he’d probably be doing something worse than the vices he already allowed himself. He’d probably be doing worse than this.

The fight begins in predictable fashion, Stiles taunting, goading, taking his hits. Then his opponent makes a grab for him, lifting him a couple of inches from the floor before slamming him backwards into it full force. Peter can see his head bounce and then his arms go limp, not fighting back. The referee calls for a stop and Peter climbs up into the ring. It’s the only time he’s ever had to intervene during an actual fight and he really wishes it wasn’t over this.

Stiles is already sitting up, looking annoyed, as Peter makes his way over to him, heart pounding too fast for the experienced trauma professional he is.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, muffled through his mouthguard as he tries to shove Peter off before he even touches him. He looks up at the referee. “I’m fine.”

The ref isn’t looking for Stiles’ opinion though. He’s waiting on Peter.

“I need to examine him,” Peter says.

Stiles rolls his eyes, pulling out his mouthguard. “I’m fine. Just give him this round, let’s keep going.”

Peter is looking into his eyes and he can tell they’re not focussing right. He moves his finger in front of them and Stiles screws his face up and looks away, not even attempting to follow it. Peter looks up at the referee.

“I think he has a concussion.”

“You’re out then, Stilinski,” the ref says.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says again, clearly outraged. He turns to Peter. “Because I don’t want to look at your finger? That’s not an examination. You’re being a fucking idiot.”

“What day was it yesterday?” Peter asks.

“Yesterday?” Stiles asks, grimacing. “That’s not a fair question, I never know what day it is,” he responds, but Peter can tell that he’s processing the question, that it’s not coming to him like it should. “Wednesday. It was Wednesday. Right?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. He looks up at the referee. “He has a concussion.”

“It was Wednesday,” Stiles says indignantly.

“It was,” Peter says. “But it’s about _how_ you answer the question.”

“This is bullshit,” Stiles says, but Peter notes that he still hasn’t tried to get up. If he was really good to continue, he would have thrown Peter out of the ring and be fighting again by now.

“Let’s go,” Peter says gently, offering out his arm. “I’ll get you checked out.”

Stiles glares at him, teeth gritted together, but he accepts his hand. Peter tries not to think of Stiles’ wet and bloody swollen lip the last time he helped him up, Peter’s come still sliding down Stiles’ throat. He’s blurred the line beyond fucking recognition.

As he stands, Stiles stumbles, trying to hide it, but then he rights himself, pulling his hand away from Peter. He takes a breath and Peter can tell he feels it, the dizziness, the disorientation. Textbook. He stands close as they climb out of the ring but he doesn’t crowd him, doesn’t humiliate him. He lets him put on a brave and pissed off face for the audience around them as he guides him out.

Stiles hops onto the table just like he always does and Peter grabs him an icepack. When he turns back he sees Stiles wiping away tears and his heart instantly clenches. He reminds himself to be professional.

“This will help,” he offers, placing the icepack against the back of his head. Stiles sniffles, swiping at tears as they roll over his cheeks. “Does it hurt?” Peter asks. “I can give you something.”

“No,” Stiles says thickly. He looks up at Peter. “I really fucking needed that money. They probably won’t pay me at all for tonight now and I knew I could take that guy, I put everything on it and now it’s gone. I lost it all. I’m fucked.”

“I can’t let you fight with a suspected concussion,” Peter says, trying to let his sympathy show, but sympathy always sounds like pity. Peter knows. “Your health is more important.”

“Fuck my health,” Stiles bites out. “I can’t afford groceries now.” Fresh tears fall and he swipes them away angrily.

“Maybe I can lend you something,” Peter says.

Stiles’ eyes flare with rage, but at least they’re actually focussed now. “I’m not a fucking charity.”

Peter nods his head, adjusting his hold on the icepack, and he feels so useless. He can’t make better the only thing that matters. He doesn’t say anything else and Stiles bows down his head like it’s really heavy, Peter keeping the icepack held soothingly against it. This is something he can do. Maybe it’s the only thing he can do. He hopes his kindness in some way helps.

“You need someone to keep an eye on you tonight,” he says, lifting the icepack and checking for swelling. “Do you have a roommate?”

“No,” Stiles mutters. It’s not slurred but it’s not strong either.

“A friend you can stay with?” Peter suggests.

Stiles lifts his head cautiously. He looks exhausted but that’s not necessarily anything to do with his head. “I don’t have any friends.”

“No emergency contact?” Peter asks.

“He’s in California,” Stiles says. “I don’t think he can babysit me tonight. I have a friend in Boston too, she probably _would_ come babysit me, but she’d kill me for doing this in the first place.”

“She sounds like a good friend,” Peter observes.

Stiles’ eyes fall down and he looks like he’s going to start crying again.

“Okay, well, I’ll have to keep an eye on you myself then,” Peter says. “You can stay at mine. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

He expects Stiles to argue, or at least try, but instead he looks relieved. He nods his head and then winces slightly. Peter reaches into his bag, taking out some painkillers. He shakes a couple into his hand, offering them out.

“Take these. Stay where people can see you. I know it’s going to suck because it’s loud in there but doctor’s orders, okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles grumbles, accepting the pills and swallowing them down dry.

Peter gets back to work, keeping an eye on Stiles from across the room. He has his hoodie pulled up, leaning on a table with his chin resting on his hands, looking miserable. Peter wishes he could just get him out of here now. He sees him get up, leaving the room with a security guard, and Peter’s glad he’s at least being smart about it.

He finds him at the end of the night, sitting outside with the security guard still by his side, standing by the door on the pretence of doing his job.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asks.

“It was just hot and loud and awful in there. I needed some fresh air,” Stiles says. “I’m feeling okay now.”

Peter looks to the security guard for confirmation.

“Don’t ask me, he never says two words anyway.”

“Really?” Peter asks. “I can’t get him to shut the fuck up.”

“Can you two stop arguing over me,” Stiles says dramatically. “It’s embarrassing.”

Peter gives him a look and then offers the security guard a grateful nod as he heads back inside. He goes to stand in front of Stiles, considering him. Stiles looks up, meeting his gaze.

“I’m really okay,” Stiles says. “Can’t I just go home?”

“If you want,” Peter says. “But the smart thing to do would be to let a doctor keep an eye on you when you’ve had a traumatic head injury. If you came into the ER I would keep you in for observation.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Stiles insists.

“Your call,” Peter says. “But if I don’t observe your recovery then I don’t know if I can clear you to fight again.”

“That’s blackmail,” Stiles says, getting to his feet. Peter puts out a hand to steady him.

“It’s coercion.”

Stiles gives him a weary look. “Let’s just go, hotshot.”

They’re quiet during the drive but Peter is aware of Stiles fidgeting beside him, that usual energy vibrating off him. He’s pretty sure at least some of it is nerves. He seems ill at ease in situations he’s not in control of, a trait that Peter can relate to, and he wonders how they somehow manage to complement each other when neither is willing to give. That’s easy when you both want the same thing though. Oblivion.

Stiles looks smaller slumped down in Peter’s car though, playing with the strings on his hoodie. He looks younger, more vulnerable, and it lights up some protective urge in Peter, the one that’s kept him sane these last few years. If he didn’t have the kids, he doesn’t think he’d even still be alive. Now that they’re moving on, is he just replacing them with another broken child? His protectiveness of Stiles came after he developed the attachment to him that he’s still not entirely comfortable admitting to himself. He liked Stiles’ spunk, his defiance, his passion far before he got any hints at tragic backstory. He relates to his attitude to the world and he’s not all that set on fixing him.

Stiles doesn’t look surprised when they cross the bridge into Manhattan, but he starts to pay more attention as they head west, leaning against the window as they enter the narrower streets where the buildings are lower to the ground and trees line the walkways. Peter has always loved the feel of the place. He appreciates the anonymity of the big city, the fact that no one here knows his business or his family or anything about him. He could never have stayed in Beacon Hills. He likes how everything is smaller in the Village though, quieter, more intimate. He didn’t mind the busy apartments he shared with the kids, he welcomed the change from his old life, the fact that he could truly throw it away and start over, but this pace suits him much better. If that means he’s old then, fuck it, he’s old.

Stiles doesn’t say anything as they get out of the car, following Peter up the steps of the townhouse, but he’s looking around, taking everything in, and Peter doubts he ever misses a trick. Peter unlocks the door, leading him inside, and Stiles’ eyes go wide.

“Holy shit,” he says. “This is a house?”

Peter gives him an incredulous look. “What did you think it was? A portal to Narnia?”

“I thought it was probably converted into apartments,” Stiles says as he moves further into the house, peering up the stairs. He turns back to Peter. “You have a townhouse? In the West Village? What the hell are you doing taking shady money from that shithole? It doesn’t look like you need it.”

“That’s more of a hobby,” Peter responds, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the banister.

“I’m a hobby,” Stiles says, heading through to the living room. “Gotcha.”

“Not you,” Peter says firmly. “The job.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, looking around. “Well, if I die here tonight, they’re definitely going to think I’m a hooker you murdered.”

“I guess I better keep you alive then,” Peter says.

Stiles steps up to the large painting that hangs above the fireplace, eyes following the abstract lines. When Peter moved in, there was a mirror hanging there, but he tore it down before he’d even finished unpacking. He didn’t need to see his flaws constantly reflected back at him.

“I bet this cost more than my whole apartment,” Stiles comments.

“It was free,” Peter says. “Derek painted it.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Wow. It’s really good.”

Peter nods. “He’s really good.”

Derek couldn’t stand seeing that empty wall where there should be a focal point and so he’d given Peter the painting as a housewarming gift. It was oil paints in blues, greys and greens, textures messy and raised up as he’d layered them on top of each other. There were birds cut out of antique wallpaper samples that were perfectly captured in flight. Some days Peter thought it looked like crashing waves, some days jagged mountains, some days the gates of hell, but whatever it was, the birds swooped above it all, majestic and victorious, and that gave him a great sense of peace.

He moved away from the painting, heading through to the kitchen with Stiles trailing after him. “Do you want a drink?”

“Water’s fine,” Stiles says, going over to the glass sliding doors. “You have outdoor space? In Manhattan? Are some kind of super villain?”

“I wish,” Peter responds.

“Right,” Stiles says, accepting the drink Peter passes to him. “You have a dark side.” He sits down at the dining table, taking a sip of his water before looking up at Peter. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m not as interesting as you might think,” Peter says. “I have family money. I have a decent job. Just your standard the rich get richer story.”

“Hmm,” Stiles considers. He sighs, leaning on the table.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asks, grateful for distraction. His privilege isn’t something he wants to discuss, especially when it’s laced with such tragedy.

“I’m really okay,” Stiles says. “It’s a bit sore. And standing up isn’t my favourite thing. I’m not dizzy, I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out or anything, it’s all just a bit…” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “Heavy. Fuzzy. I don’t know.”

Peter nods. “That’s normal. Nothing to worry about.”

Stiles chews on his lip before looking up at him. “Do you really think it’s serious?”

“I think you’re probably fine,” Peter says. “You’re alert and responsive. I’m not worried, it’s just a precaution. Standard procedure.”

“Standard procedure to bring slutty boys back to your townhouse?” Stiles asks with a raised eyebrow. “What hospital do you work at?”

“It’s a family clinic,” Peter says, instantly regretting it. The simple admission leaves him far too open. “Do you want an icepack?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Those things are cold as fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point,” Peter responds.

Stiles smiles but he doesn’t say anything. Peter feels painfully self-conscious, standing in the middle of his kitchen where he has family dinners, where no one has ever been except for Laura and Derek and now Braeden. Their walls are crumbling. Pretty soon they’ll be joining the real world. Peter feels that familiar itch crawling under his skin.

“I need a smoke,” he says, heading back through the house to retrieve them from his jacket. He opens up the sliding door to the patio. “Make yourself comfortable. Or come join me. Whatever you want.”

“I’m going to drink my water,” Stiles says, looking just as strained as Peter does.

Peter gives him a nod, leaving the door open as he heads outside. It’s a tiny space, nothing like the woods they had back in Beacon Hills, but all Peter needs is air. He just needs to breathe. He crosses the decking to the oversized lounger at the edge of the patio, a canopy offering a semblance of privacy, like he’s not in the middle of a city, surrounded by a million other people.

He lies back, placing a cigarette between his lips and flicking the lighter. He stares at the flame, basks in his mastery of it, and then he lights the cigarette, taking a long drag. He feels his skin settle, like it’s turning the right way around again, flicking the lighter just to watch it burn.

The summer he bought this place, he, Derek and Laura would spend evenings after family dinners sprawled out here together, sweaty and content. When it got colder, Peter invested in a heater, and they sat there in the snow one night, wrapped up in coats and blankets. They watched it fall, all huddled together in the quiet, and it’s a moment Peter wishes he could have stayed in forever. It’s the only moment of true peace he’s felt in seven years, everything he cared about in touching distance.

He sees Stiles’ figure appear behind the flame, as though he’s standing right in it. It makes his skin prickle, like the crackle of fire. He flicks the lighter off and looks up at him, safe and sound.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Stiles returns, looking around. “This is nice.”

Peter shifts over, patting the lounger beside him. “Come sit with me.”

Stiles crosses the patio, climbing on beside him and laying out with a sigh. “Yeah, this is awesome.” He closes his eyes, relaxing into the cushions. “Tell me about being a super villain.”

“I’m not a super villain,” Peter says, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke away from Stiles.

“That sounds exactly like what a super villain would say,” Stiles responds, a little smile playing over his lips.

Peter shakes his head. “What’s your day job?”

“I’m in college,” Stiles says.

“Oh,” Peter says. “Where are you at? NYU? Fordham?”

“Columbia,” Stiles says, opening his eyes to look at him. There’s a tiny smirk pulling at his mouth.

Peter stares at him for a moment. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, straightforward and genuine. “I’m smart. Really smart. I have an academic scholarship. It’s pretty much a free ride as long as I keep my grades up, which I do, because I’m amazing.”

“Wow,” Peter says, re-evaluating everything he thought he knew about Stiles. “You’re kind of turning my world upside down right now.”

Stiles grins at that. “Yeah, that’s what my classmates would say if they knew what I did every night.”

“Double life,” Peter says. “Maybe you’re the super villain.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not the hero,” Stiles responds.

The words make Peter uneasy but he pushes them aside. “What are you studying?”

“I’m majoring in anthropology,” Stiles says. “I like making connections, figuring things out.”

“That sounds… strangely soothing,” Peter says, taking a last drag of his cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray beside him.

“It is,” Stiles says.

They fall into silence, listening to the sounds of the city, the air cool but not cold. Not yet. They can stay here a while longer. Stiles shifts beside him, closing his eyes again. His lip is still swollen and Peter wants to kiss it. He wants to make everything better.

“How did you get those scars?” Stiles asks.

Peter feels his stomach roll over unpleasantly. He spends every waking minute trying not to think about that and Stiles just throws it out there so casually.

“I don’t talk about that,” he says.

“Maybe you should,” Stiles says. “Otherwise I might fall asleep and I have a concussion so that’s dangerous.”

“You can fall asleep,” Peter says. “That’s a myth. I just need to check on you at intervals. I can show you to the guest room if you want.”

Stiles opens his eyes, looking at him. “I’m just curious.” It’s clear there’s no malice behind it, just genuine interest in Peter and his story, but it still grates at him.

“We don’t all paint our traumas onto our bodies ourselves,” Peter says pointedly.

Stiles looks down at his arm, touching the flowers inked into his skin. “I guess.” He looks at his other arm, the patchwork of smaller pieces, touching a six-pointed star that has a little scene inside it, water and a fish dangling from a rod. “This was my first one.”

“Do they all mean something?” Peter asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He looks up at Peter. “I’ll tell you about them if you tell me about your scars.”

“That doesn’t seem like a fair trade,” Peter responds.

Stiles touches the flowers on his arm again. “My mom died when I was a little kid.”

“I’m not agreeing to trade tragic backstories with you,” Peter says. “Just to be clear.”

“Whatever,” Stiles says. “She had frontotemporal dementia. You’re probably the only person I’ve told that to who actually knows what it means.”

“Yeah,” Peter confirms, his chest tightening. “Fucking evil disease.”

“Fucking evil,” Stiles agrees. He blows out a breath. “She used to lose her train of thought a lot and forget words or just start talking nonsense halfway through a sentence. Then she was angry all the time or she just wouldn’t care, she’d close off like we meant nothing to her. But I stayed with her, all the time, and it was worth it for those few lucid moments. She wasn’t a monster, she was my mom. But eventually she couldn’t do anything for herself, she could barely even breathe for herself, and then she got pneumonia and she didn’t get better.”

He swallows uncomfortably, lost in the memories, and Peter can’t tear his eyes away from him.

“I was with her when she died,” Stiles says. “I was on my own with her. She was breathing slow, she had been for days, sucking breaths, and they always sounded like her last. Then it just stopped. I didn’t even notice at first, it was so long between breaths anyway, but then it started to feel wrong. I held my own breath and I watched her and I waited but nothing happened. And I just sat there. I held her hand and I sat there in the silence and I didn’t even tell anyone. I think I was scared that they’d try and bring her back and then she’d be suffering again. She’d suffered for months. She looked so at peace and it was nice to finally have some quiet.”

Peter knows exactly what Stiles is talking about. He wishes for blissful ignorance. He knows though, knows what frontotemporal dementia does to a person, what it does to their families. He knows what it’s like to die from pneumonia. It’s like a long, drawn out drowning. He can’t imagine how much it must fuck up a kid to have to watch that play out, and to know enough to understand that death was the best possible outcome.

He lifts his hand up, slipping his fingers beneath the collar of his shirt to feel the rough scar tissue. Stiles’ mom couldn’t be saved. Peter’s family could though.

“I was in a fire,” he says. He can see Stiles turn to look at him but he doesn’t look back. “Laura, my niece, was in New York at med school. NYU. Derek was at basketball practice at his high school. I was at home with my sister, Talia, and her husband and their younger daughter, Cora, as well as our parents. It was the family home. It was huge and we’d all grown up there. It was old. Renovation was not one of our strong suits.” He shakes his head. “I had an apartment but I never used it. I was always in my old room. I liked being close to them all.” He reaches for his lighter, flicking it on and staring at the flame. “It was the water heater, according to the fire investigator. It was in the basement. James, my brother in law, was working down there. He did carpentry. There was so much wood in that fucking house. Talia went down there to ask what he wanted for dinner, I watched her from the other side of the house going down the stairs. It was the last time I ever saw her.”

He flicks the lighter off. Even that can’t bring him comfort now.

“There was an explosion, the foundations shook with it, and by the time I got to my feet there was smoke and fire pouring out of the basement. Everything around it was up in flames. My parents were upstairs, they had a suite up there, and Cora was in the attic, studying. And I stood there, frozen, because they were scattered around this stupid, huge, wood framed house and I didn’t know who I could save. I went for the stairs, calling for Cora, trying to make it to my parents’ room, but the floor collapsed beneath me. I fell into the fire. I got dragged out of there by a fire fighter. I found out later it was Cora who called them, that she stayed on the phone at the top of that burning house by her open window until the smoke was too thick for her to get any air and the floor was too hot to stand on.”

He sighs, exhausted but strangely numb. He’s never told that story. He’s never even put the narrative together for himself. It hurts too much to think about. He lived. Laura and Derek were safe. He has to focus on that or he might forget how to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says.

“I’m sorry,” Peter echoes. “About your mom.”

Stiles nods. “The world is full of shitty ways to die.” He shifts further down the lounger, looking at his other arm, fingertips tracing the star. “My dad was a sheriff,” he says. “He died in the line of duty. I was in my freshman year at Columbia. I got a phone call from someone at the hospital. He was shot in a gas station hold up, right through the lung, he choked on his own blood. It must have been just like mom in those last moments, but he would have known what was happening. At least she didn’t know. He was declared dead when he reached the hospital.”

Peter watches him touching the edge of that star, a sheriff’s badge he realises, but with something much more personal inside.

“I went home for his hero’s funeral and I found out that the house wasn’t paid off and he had all these debts on credit cards and it was just a mess. There was nothing left. I didn’t get a penny and I had no savings because he used to take care of me. So now I’m out here on my own and I had to find something.”

“Cage fighting,” Peter says.

“MMA,” Stiles corrects with an eyeroll. Peter smiles fondly. “But yeah. I can earn more there than a shitty job that takes up too much of my study time. I turn up for my fights, I take my winnings, I write assignments on the subway. And I like it. I did it out of desperation, I used to do sports in high school and I heard about it from some guys in my dorm, but I don’t think they ever went there. I got my ass kicked at first but I trained and I learnt and I was sufficiently motivated by financial ruin. I got good. And it felt really good to put my anger somewhere. I mean, fuck the world, look what it did to me. I know that sounds immature and maybe I’ll grow out of it, but seriously, fuck the world.”

“Fuck the world,” Peter agrees. He looks at Stiles. “I never grew out of it.” Stiles smiles at him. Peter is struck with the urge to kiss him but he blinks and turns away. “Can you really not afford groceries?”

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe I can get some ramen.”

Peter wants to offer again to lend him some money but he knows it won’t be welcomed. Stiles wants to stand on his own two feet, or he feels like he has to. Money is only ever a big deal to people who don’t have it.

“My friend got a tattoo when we were in high school,” Stiles says. “I passed out. Literally, I dropped to the floor. I fucking hate needles.” He strokes over his forearm, the art that rests under his skin. “Do you know that the word ‘tattoo’ means ‘open wound’ in Samoan?”

Peter gives him a look. “Why would I know that?”

Stiles looks amused. “I thought everyone was full of useless facts like me.”

Peter looks down at his tattoos. “So that’s why you wanted one?”

“Seemed fitting,” Stiles shrugs. “I knew it was never going to stop hurting. It never stops hurting. But I thought maybe at least I could have something to show for it.” He holds his arm up. “The star is for my dad, that was the first one. He used to take me fishing when I was little, just the two of us. It’s one of my earliest memories. Then the pawprint is for my friend Scott, he’s like the dog whisperer, he’s training to be a vet. The anchor is for my friend Lydia because she was the level headed one, she always kept me steady. This is my jeep, it used to be my mom’s, we had all kinds of adventures with it in high school. Scott’s still back home so he’s looking after her for me now. This is the most recent one, it’s the kanji for self. I learnt about it in class. I just wanted a reminder that I’m still me, even through all the shit. Everything else can get taken away, but not that.”

Peter reaches out, tracing the mark on the inside of his wrist. Stiles shivers as Peter’s touch ghosts over his flesh. He looks up, meeting Peter’s eyes, something so soft there.

“Do you want to go inside?” Peter asks. If he knew he was coming out here for this long he would have brought his jacket.

“I like it out here,” Stiles says. He looks so comfortable, snuggled into the lounger.

“Wait here,” Peter says, getting to his feet.

He switches on the heater and then goes through to the house, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch. He hands it to Stiles as he gets back outside, Stiles throwing it over both of their legs as Peter lies beside him, shuffling a little closer than he was before. Stiles rolls onto his side, cushioning his hands under his head.

“I used to use my mom’s death to keep people away,” Stiles says. “I threw it around to make people uncomfortable because I’m a terrible human being. But thanks for letting me tell her real story. Thanks for listening.”

Peter smiles softly at him, wishing he could wrap him up against the world. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Stiles says tenderly before realising Peter is talking about the concussion. “Uh, my head’s a little sore. Just a little. No big deal.”

“Get some sleep if you want,” Peter says. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“I’m good,” Stiles says. He shifts closer, fingers trailing over the collar of Peter’s shirt. Peter instinctively tenses. “It’s okay,” Stiles says gently, pulling his hand away as he lifts the blanket so he can move over and straddle Peter’s thighs. Peter’s hands go to hold him, pulling him close.

Their lips brush together and it feels like a whisper. They’ve run out of words to say the things they want to say so this will have to do. Peter lets his eyes slip closed as Stiles’ fingers trail along his jaw, so tender and real, and Peter believes him. He cradles Peter’s face as he kisses him deeper, Peter tilting his head and swiping his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, his hand going to caress the back of his neck. Stiles makes a tiny noise in response, shifting closer so that their hips are pressed together.

They’ve never kissed like this before, with so much stillness, with so little purpose. They did everything the wrong way around, used their bodies as weapons against everything they needed to hide. Now they’re using the slide of tongues to share their secrets, make a pact that they’ll keep each other’s vulnerabilities safe. They’re using the brush of fingertips to make promises and keep each other safe. They’re using their bodies to tell each other that they understand.

“I want to get naked,” Stiles says breathlessly.

“We’re not having sex,” Peter says. “Not when you have a head injury.”

“I still want to be naked,” Stiles says. He strokes his hand up Peter’s forearm. “Don’t you like that feeling?”

Peter gets it, gets the comfort and intimacy of flesh against flesh, gets that barriers have been broken and space seems absurd. That’s not quite enough for him to let go of this last thing though.

Stiles sits back, pulling his hoodie and T-shirt over his head, and Peter runs his hands appreciatively down the toned flesh. Of course he wants to be naked, he looks like an Adonis.

“You don’t have to,” Stiles says as he unbuttons his jeans.

Peter watches him, holds the blanket in place as he strips, beautiful and naked in their little oasis. The world isn’t still now but Peter doesn’t need that. If it’s still turning that means they’re surviving, that maybe they’re winning.

He reaches down, unfastening his jeans, pushing them down with his underwear, letting Stiles strip them away. He lies down on top of Peter, naked legs against naked legs, and Stiles kisses him again, slow and deep, moving restlessly above him, but it doesn’t feel sexual. It’s just the sensation of skin pressing against skin that he’s chasing, that slide of their legs every time he shifts, lighting up his senses.

Peter slides his hands greedily over his body, down his back, over his ass, up again. He feels the muscles shifting in Stiles’ back, hooking a leg over one of Stiles’ to bring them closer, tangle them together, never wanting to become unentwined. Peter hadn’t realised how pathetically touch-starved he’d become. He fucked nearly every night in the Village, his seedy bathroom encounters, but he never let them touch him. He barely liked it when they looked at him. He had hugs from Derek and Laura, surely the only thing that’s sustained him, kept him alive, this long. This though, _this_ , is like coming back from the dead. Peter has nothing left to hold back.

He reaches between them, unfastening the buttons of his shirt with fumbling hands. His stomach clenches but he fights it back. He can trust Stiles. He’s already given more to him tonight than he has anyone in seven years and Stiles is going to keep those things safe, Peter can tell. He’ll keep this safe as well.

Stiles shifts back as Peter moves, letting him strip his shirt off, but then he doesn’t even look at Peter’s body, just dips back down to kiss him. It’s not because he’s disgusted, Peter can tell. It simply doesn’t mean anything to him, but he knows what it means to Peter. He’s respecting him, giving him space to feel comfortable with it, because to Stiles it’s already just a simple fact and he’s not going to spend time dwelling on it.

Stiles kisses down his jaw, lips trailing the good side of his neck as Peter’s arms wrap around him, holding him close. Between the blanket and the heater and their shared body heat, Peter feels so warm, their flesh slightly tacky where it’s pressed together, and it’s been so long since Peter has experienced this, since he shared a bed or really anything.

Stiles mouths over his throat, to his other side, his scarred side. He kisses him just the same as he did on his unmarred skin and Peter forces himself not to tense, not to push him away. This is safe. He has to let that sink in.

He runs is hand through Stiles’ hair and Stiles makes a little noise, clearly still tender. He lifts is head, frowning slightly.

“Sorry,” Peter says.

“It’s okay,” Stiles responds. He leans in, brushing their lips together again.

“You should get some rest,” Peter tells him. Stiles pouts. “We have time,” Peter assures him. “We have all the time in the world.”

Stiles smiles softly at him. “Yeah.” His eyes fall down. “I’m not used to…”

He trails off but Peter gets it. Not used to certainty, not used to being seen, not used to being with somebody and meaning it. Not used to holding onto something when everything gets ripped away in the end.

“Me neither,” he says.

Stiles moves off him, lying down beside him and snuggling into his side. Peter can feel his soft cheek pressed against the rough scar tissue. It feels wrong and so right. Maybe it always will.

Stiles falls asleep and Peter dozes between checking on him, making sure his breaths are even and he’s not showing any discomfort. Peter’s not worried though, he’s been talking fine all night and his coordination is definitely okay. Peter was right not to let him fight, he’s certain of that, but there’s no lasting damage. He might suggest he stay out of the ring for one more night though. After that, he’ll be on the sidelines cheering him on.

He holds Stiles close, feeling his warmth seeping deep into his core, his steady breaths like a metronome for Peter’s heart. The sunrise bleeds in slowly, the blue tones of the night taken over by orange and gold, chasing away the shadows. He’s not a sentimental man, he could never afford to be, but he feels something profound as he lies there, fingertips playing with the hair at the nape of Stiles’ neck. He feels at peace, like he’s had the cobwebs blown away from his soul. He doesn’t ever want to let them grow again.

Stiles wakes up with the sun, snuggling into Peter with a disgruntled noise.

“Good morning,” Peter greets, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Are you a morning person?” Stiles asks. “I hate morning people.”

“Only when I wake up with you,” Peter responds.

Stiles lifts his head to glare at him. “Using cuteness as a weapon in low, Hale.”

Peter laughs, unable to stop himself brushing a kiss against his temple. “Do you have class today?”

“Not until ten,” Stiles tells him.

“In that case, how about I take you to breakfast?” Peter suggests. “Then I can drive you up to your fancy, ivy league school in my fancy car.”

“Breakfast sounds amazing,” Stiles says. “I can take the subway though.”

“I have nothing else going on today, let me drive you,” Peter says.

Stiles purses his lips at him. “Fine. But I’m telling everyone you’re my sugar daddy.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Peter says, pecking him on the lips. “Get dressed.”

Stiles sits up, pulling the blanket with him. Peter pulls on his shirt and then he watches him, an unbearable fondness in his chest. This is dangerous, a voice in his head screams, but then he remembers the advice he gave to Derek. _Don’t ever be ashamed of moving on._ The three of them can’t cut themselves off from the world forever, it was always an inevitability they were going to have to join it. Maybe he should lead by example.

“Do you mind if I invite my niece and nephew?” Peter asks.

“Go for it,” Stiles says.

“Laura lives nearby, she’ll probably join us,” Peter says, retrieving his phone. “Derek’s further out but I’m sure he’ll cross the Brooklyn Bridge for free breakfast.”

“Man after my own heart,” Stiles says.

Peter taps out a group message, telling them where to meet, that Stiles will be joining them, that this is very new so if they could please not fuck it up. He looks at Stiles, looking so at ease as he pulls on his hoodie, like he’s ready to face anything. They’ve both been through worse than whatever they can possibly do to each other so they might as well give it a shot.

Peter sends the text. It’s going to be a baptism of fire, but if anyone’s qualified for that, it’s him.


End file.
